


Sunshine In An Empty Place

by lilcoyotepupcutie



Category: Stitchers (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/F/M, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6834412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilcoyotepupcutie/pseuds/lilcoyotepupcutie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rhythm is a dancer, it's a souls companion. Free your mind and join us,<br/>you can feel it in the air." Dance AU. Camille/Kirsten/Cameron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with the lovely dee-light-full on tumblr.

 

Conventions, in Kirsten’s mind, had always been regarded with a touch of disdain. Huge halls, crazed fans, and professionals showcasing their work whether it was dance or TV or even knitting, seemed like far too chaotic a situation to involve herself in. It wasn’t an environment that lent itself to actual, productive work. She was happier in the studio all day than she would ever be at any dance convention, no matter how highly regarded it was by others. 

 

Work with the ballet troupe was simple enough. One routine learned in a month, and then toured across the country for another month. Return home, learn a new routine, and repeat. When she was home Kirsten was either practicing with the small barre she’d installed in her tiny apartment, stretching, or breaking in new pointe shoes. There was nothing else in her entire world. Everything narrowed down to nothing but dance, every single day. 

 

It wasn’t passion, exactly (and she thought maybe she’d never known what it was to be passionate). From the moment Kirsten had taken a class as a child, she’d be good at it.  _ Really _ good. In a childhood where she’d had very little control over anything else, she had ballet. It became what some would call an obsession, and she danced every day just to move the tiniest bit closer to perfection. It might have been mechanical and robotic, in the eyes of many, but ballet was  _ hers _ and she was one of the best at it. 

 

Conventions were the opposite of the nice, normal, predictable balance that was her life. Conventions weren’t just elite, well-trained professionals, but people messing around more for fun than for work. Kirsten had nothing against it, but she didn’t see what she could learn from anyone there. 

 

In the end, though, several girls from her troupe talked her into it. There would be all sorts of highly trained ballet instructors there, they promised, and opportunities for jobs outside of the shows they put on every other month. It wasn’t that she wanted to move on from the troupe, necessarily, but she knew that realistically her career would end around the time she turned twenty-six or twenty-seven. It was good to have some sort of option for after that. 

 

The building itself was enormous. The first thought that came to mind where the facebook photos she’d seen from her cousins when they’d gone to Comic Con. It was that, essentially, with tights, leotards, and a general lack of actual clothing instead of costumes of characters she couldn’t ever dream of naming. A glance at the schedule she’d printed showed that there were enough halls and rooms dedicated to just ballet that she could completely avoid most of the convention and stick to what she knew she’d be perfect at. 

 

Unfortunately, there was nothing for ballet that entire morning, which left her with a slew of hip hop workshops to try, or something more yoga-oriented. Yoga was the clear winner out of the two. 

 

The class she ended up at was in one of the smaller rooms, just big enough for the twenty or so people that had showed up. She was early, as always (yet another thing she could control) and settled in a corner to do warm-up stretches. Someone had set up a portable stereo in the corner, some generic pop music filtering through the room from the corner it sat in, and several people were messing around in the center of the room while they waited for the instructor to show. 

 

There were two in particular that had gotten really into the improv happening, busting out some absurd moves and giggling at each other. Kirsten honestly couldn’t decide if either of them had any true talent - the girl had flexibility, sure, but neither one was serious enough. They were happy, though, and the sight of the girl pulling the guy closer to her and ever-so-gently bopping the tip of his nose tugged at something in her chest. She squashed it down as quickly as possible, turning her attention back to stretching. 

 

She thought it’d been the last she’d see of them as the instructor filed in and everyone took their places in the room when the bouncy, overexcited brunettes settled down next to her with their yoga mats. They chattered among each other, leaving her alone, and she couldn’t help but listen to them as they talked (and really, it was impossible to ignore as they were a few feet away).

 

The first name she got was Cameron. Goofy, lighthearted, Cameron, who seemed to have a smile permanently fixed on his face. He had nothing but cutesy nicknames for his friend the first several minutes of class; sweetheart, poppet, sugarplum, pumpkin and dollface (the very last was sometimes in an accent that she assumed was meant to be the one of some 20’s gangster, but sounded more like he was faking a bad French accent). It was nearly twenty minutes into the class before she heard a name; Camille. 

 

The two were giggling and whispering to each other as they and everyone in the room moved from pose to pose, following the instructor. Kirsten was tempted to shush them, at first, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself and so instead she settled for casting them a few half hearted glares. Unfortunately, they were too caught up in each other to notice. A few more sideways glances and her stern expression softened just the slightest bit. 

 

Kirsten lost herself in the next few yoga poses, finally getting a chance to look over at the two again when she was in a forward fold. Camille had her hands pressed flat to the floor, her stomach nearly touching her thighs. Every so often she’d rise up on her toes and ease her feet off the floor with the gracefulness of something well-practised, toes skimming her wrists for a moment before her feet lightly hit the mat again. Cameron caught on after a few seconds of it and started mimicking her, the both of them trying to get a press handstand before the other. Kirsten watched in amusement from her own forward fold as it turned into a competition, Cameron and Camille makes faces at each other the entire time.

 

Finally, after one last defiant attempt, Camille’s legs lifted all the way up and she let out a little triumphant noise, sticking her tongue out at Cameron as she let her feet fall back to the ground. It was a short-lived victory, though; Kirsten had already caught sight of the instructor glaring at them from across the room, and Camille did the same moment later. The two brunettes burst into repressed giggles as they quickly got into the correct pose.

 

They kept it up the entire class, somehow, whispering and laughing like the best of friends. Kirsten couldn’t help but look over again and again, the smallest of smiles forming on her face at their antics. She only stopped when they caught on to how obvious she was being - Camille had turned her head just soon enough to see Kirsten staring, smiled hugely at Kirsten, and then turned to Cameron with a little smirk and gesture. When he looked over Kirsten turned her eyes to the instructor, resolutely focusing on him and nothing else until the hour was up. 

 

She was rolling up her yoga mat when a hand brushed her shoulder gently, and Kirsten look up to see Camille smiling at her. “Hey, sorry if we were a little disruptive earlier.” the brunette said sincerely, though Kirsten guessed she’d still do the same thing again. “I think the sleep deprivation and jet lag kicked in a little bit there, and the two of us - Cameron and I - always get this way when we get to see each other.”

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Kirsten assured her, tucking the last of her things in her bag. After a moment, she added, “You were both far more entertaining than watching the instructor anyways.” 

 

Camille laughed, loud and vibrant in a way that made Kirsten want to hear that exact sound again. “Yeah? Well, glad we could help, right, Cameron?”

 

“Hmmm?” 

 

“You. Me. Both of us acting like idiots and entertaining the lovely blonde here.” 

 

He looked up then, beaming so brightly at Kirsten that it caught her by surprise. “Me, acting like an idiot? Never.”

 

Camille rolled her eyes at him, sighing in the way of someone who’d been putting up with this kind of sass for years. “Whatever you say, Goodkin.” She looked back to Kirsten, adding, “What was your name?” 

 

“Kirsten,” she replied, stiffly offering her hand as an afterthought. 

 

The gesture seems to amuse Camille, who raised a skeptical eyebrow before shaking Kirsten’s hand with no other comment aside from, “I’m Camille. And, as I’m sure you heard, that one’s Cameron.”

 

“‘That one’? So cold and clinical, you’d never believe we were friends,” Cameron joked. He reached for her hand too, shaking it and smiling (she didn’t understand how any one person could be  _ that _ happy, especially after a yoga class as long and boring as they’d just taken). “It was nice meeting you, Kirsten.”

 

“Likewise.” she hated how formal the words sounded as soon as they were past her lips, but neither of the two seemed to notice or care. Camille and Cameron threw their bags over their shoulders and bid her cheery goodbyes, then vanished out into the hall. 

 

Kirsten had pushed the thought of them to the back of her head after that, ignoring any memories of sunshiney smiles or bright, excited eyes. Fate seemed to have a different plan, however, and she couldn’t seem to shake them. First it was in a nearby cafe that they caught sight of her - Cameron waved like an excitable puppy and Camille cast her a wink while she bought her coffee and then hurried out of the building to drink it on a park bench several blocks away. Then it was classes; she’d leave one to find them hanging outside, waiting to go into the class after hers. They were in the main entrance of the building hosting the con almost every time she walked through, and every time the greetings got more and more excitable, to the point of absurdity. 

 

So, naturally, when she took a cab back to her hotel that night, she found them there too. 

 

“Look,” Camille eventually told her when they bumped into each other yet  _ again  _ in their shared hotel lobby. “If you're gonna take a cab to the convention and back two, three times a day for the whole week it's going to cost you a pretty penny. Cameron has a car, and we're already going that way at least as often as you are. Giving him some money for gas – or, knowing Cameron a ridiculously complicated drink from some unknown coffee shop along the way – will work out much cheaper.”

 

She declined at first, but then rethought the answer in the shower that evening and found the other woman's suggestion to actually be very practical. So she texted Camille to say she was taking her up on the offer, got an enthusiastic response and hadn't thought about it since then.

 

Until she was standing outside the hotel lobby without either of her new acquaintances anywhere in sight, and some voice at the back of her head was telling her that she'd been pranked again, like the time in seventh grade when she'd been invited to the popular girls' party, and there had been no party there when she'd arrived all decked out in her new dress. She hadn't thought that spunky, friendly Camille or bubbly, witty Cameron were the type to find pleasure in inviting her to a non-existent carpool, but then she wasn't the best judge of people's character or intentions or what what most people found funny. She was just calculating how late she would be if she tried to hail a cab now – in rush-hour traffic, when every car seemed to be packed full like a can of sardines– when a silver convertible with the hood up slid to a smooth stop in front of her. The window rolled down and Camille's head stuck out at her, wide grin in place.

 

“Well, hello there, sunshine. Hope we didn't keep you waiting.”

 

“ _ Somebody  _ forgot their tights,” Cameron's voice yelled from inside the car, just before the hood started lowering itself.

 

“Say it one more time, and I'll tell her all of your embarrassing stories. And you know I have lots of ammo, Goodkin. Come on, new girl. Into the back – you have to  _ earn  _ shotgun in this baby.”

 

After another moment of hesitation, Kirsten dumped her bags on one end of the back seat and then proceeded to try and clamber her way into the convertible, trying not to scratch the fancy silver paint as she awkwardly flailed everywhere. Camille and Cameron, thankfully, were oblivious to her less-than-graceful entrance; they were too busy squabbling over the music, slapping each other’s hands away from the stereo dials like children.

 

“Everybody in? Everybody  _ got everything _ ?” Camille smacked his shoulder  _ hard _ . “Then off we go – to infinity and beyond!”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Camille said, loudly so she could be heard over the car engine and the hood slipping back up over their heads. (Kirsten slouched down in her seat, not trusting that it would not smack her in the back of the head as it powered over them.) “You’d better buckle up. This is going to be a wild one.”

 

Kirsten found out very quickly that that had been sarcasm to one of the highest degrees; Cameron drove in a way that would have made the entire character list of  _ The Great Gatsby  _ choke with envy and sniff in derision. Camille seemed to think that his driving too slow or too cautious or too kind on the many, many assholes she seemed to find – and call out – on the road. But Kirsten liked it; slow and steady and almost  _ dependable,  _ like she knew she could fall asleep on the back seat and arrive in one piece at her destination, something she had never done before in her life. That feeling of safety mixed with the easy, affectionate atmosphere Camille and Cameron created around themselves and included her in, and when the questions fired by the two in front at her remained light and non-intrusive, Kirsten found herself relaxing. And starting to  _ enjoy  _ the ride.

 

Until Camille, with no warning whatsoever, started singing along to the song that had just come on the radio, voice almost top-volume and shameless. Cameron joined in at once, and when the chorus came along they added shoulder movements and duck-pout faces and Camille added in beats against the dashboard and the car floor. Kirsten sat and stared at them, unsure of what to do and feeling extremely uncomfortable at witnessing something that seemed incredibly embarrassing, to her. Cameron glanced at her, saw her expression, and stopped singing to laugh.

 

“Don’t know this one?”

 

“No,” she said, honestly; it was some trashy pop number she was sure the radio stations all overplayed.

 

“No worries; you’ll get the next one.”

 

She thought he’d been joking, but as soon as the next song came on both of them fell into it with gusto, dancing as much as the confines of the seats and driving allowed them, singing along to every word and, sometimes, the instrumental breaks as well. Whenever they stopped in a traffic jam or at a light, there would always be somebody looking over at them, and Kirsten felt red-hot mortification spread across her face in a permanent blush. This wasn’t happening. She’d gotten into a car with absolute  _ weirdos _ .

 

She nearly jumped right out of her skin when Camille suddenly howled, diving forward and turning up the music so loud the car’s speakers seemed to shudder. “ _ Cameron _ ! It’s  _ our song _ !”

 

Kirsten thought they’d been ridiculous and loud before. If that was the case, she had absolutely no frame of reference to describe what they were as they reacted to this particular song. Despite the music being turned up so loud it was nearly making the car vibrate, Kirsten could  _ still  _ hear them singing. And it was very, very difficult to miss those dance moves. If they could even be classified as dance moves.

 

Another red light, and Cameron took the opportunity to let go of the wheel and increase his fervent appreciation of the song, causing the car next to them to look over and pack up laughing. Kirsten sank as far down as she could, knees practically by her ears, face flaming.  _ I don’t know them _ , she pleaded with the laughing, pointing people.  _ I just met them a few days ago. I really don’t know them _ .

 

Camille and Cameron did some synchronised hand movements, stopping only because the light turned and Cameron had to drive on. It didn’t stop him still singing and pulling weird faces, though, and he glanced over at Kirsten in the rearview mirror, grinning widely at her position. Later on, she’d wonder if he’d meant to sing the next line of the chorus staring unblinkingly into her eyes. “I know we only met, but let’s pretend it’s love.” She yanked her gaze away, disliking them furiously for doing this to her.

 

“Let your hair down a little!” Camille yelled over the music, twisting in her seat so she could grin over her shoulder at Kirsten.

 

Kirsten raised concerned fingers to her hair, which was already severely gelled back into a bun, and Cameron’s laugh somehow floated over the blasting music even though it was soft and gentle and warm against the harsh pop melody. 

 

“Metaphorically, Cupcake. Just metaphorically.”

 

By the time they reached the conference, Kirsten was very sure she was never getting in a car with them again, Cameron’s good driving be damned. In fact, she was seriously questioning whether she should let herself hang out with the two at all, given how absolutely embarrassing they could obviously be. But Camille and Cameron sought her out at every opportunity during the day, and Kirsten found herself warming more and more to them each time despite herself. They never reacted with any scorn to what she’d been told was her social ineptitude; there was a laugh here and there, and a weird look or two, but it was always overlooked and treated gently. Camille was spitfire and sarcasm but so far from cruel, and although she teased it always managed to turn out  _ inclusive _ . Cameron was sunshine and dry quips rolled into a waistcoat, and relaxing around him seemed inevitable.

 

And by the time they were all ready to go home she couldn’t find it in her to say  _ no  _ to their assumption that she was going with them. They left the top down, this time, the city lights and the night air blurring around them as they sang. They were absolutely ridiculous, and she had no idea what to make of them. But there was something warm in her chest that  _ wasn’t  _ embarrassment or exasperation as she watched them howling and dancing, hair flying everywhere, and she thought that maybe sticking around them was not such a horrible decision after all.

 

That thought held even when they did the same ridiculous antics to the convention the next morning, dancing like two uncoordinated teenagers at a sleepover with brushes for microphones. Now that some of the shock had worn off, Kirsten had some time to wonder why two people who were serious enough about dance to go to something like this convention would do the kind of crazy they did in the car, or the kind of crazy they’d done in that improv session the first day she’d met them. There had always been a very firm, very straightforward line in Kirsten's head when it came to people and dancing – either they did it for fun and freedom or they did it as a lifestyle. The few people she had spent more than just class time with seemed to solidify that bit of truth for her, but here these two strangers were completely breaking the pattern.

 

It baffled her. Especially since her initial doubt about whether Camille had any actual talent or not had since been eradicated. When Kirsten slipped in to watch her new acquaintance dance during the convention, whatever little seed of scorn against contemporary dance that had been planted in her head by ballet purists was killed when she watched Camille's routines. She moved like she needed to to breathe; like she was shouting and showing off and keeping secrets all at once. It was controlled – every move precise and professional and calculated – but also raw and explosive and a little captivating, if she was being honest. She thought about watching Camille move when they were on the way home that night, eyeing the brunette doing a bad box while singing full-out to Justin Bieber, and the confusion settled further into her chest.

 

She put off going to watch Cameron dance for as long as possible. By that stage she was pretty sure she liked those two, as completely mortifying and strange as they were, and because she knew she didn't have very good people-skills she didn't want to have to give Cameron her assessment of his dancing. He did  _ swing _ , for crying out loud, and looking at him wasn't exactly getting a revelation of the world's greatest dance machine. She'd grown up around diligent ballet dancers of both genders, and knew how the men acted and looked and behaved. Plus he'd admitted himself he rarely took part in major competitions, that he wasn't really the competitive type and that he was only there, really, for the experience and the fun.

 

Cameron, she assumed from the moment she met him to the moment she watched him balance a spoon on his nose to amuse Camille during a break, was probably a novice whose feelings she'd hurt very badly when she was forced to admit that, compared to what she put her body through and what she saw colleagues do, he wasn't very impressive.

 

And then the break ended, the spoon was put away, and she was forcing a smile and following Cameron into where his group of people were showing their stuff. She hadn't been able to get out of it, this time – Camille had checked to make sure she had nothing on right then, and between Camille’s  almost-stern look and Cameron's hopeful expression she'd had to relent. She only hoped neither of them got too mad at her for being unable to hide the truth about how she felt about Cameron's dancing. She wanted to sink into a chair as far at the back as possible, but Camille linked arms with her and yanked her to the front.

 

The first couple were better than Kirsten had expected, but there was nothing  _ mindblowing _ about their rocking steps and occasional turns. There were another two pairs who danced before Cameron came on, and neither of them blew Kirsten away, either. Cameron's partner, a pretty girl with curly black hair that bounced every time she moved and a grin almost as wide as Cameron's, had to run off to put her glasses down, amid laughter from the audience. Cameron took her hands, saying something that made her giggle, and then the music started. It surprised Kirsten a little; the other couples had danced to songs of varying tempos, yes, but none of them had been nearly that fast. Cameron and his partner tested the rhythm for a few seconds, and then leapt into action.

 

Kirsten's mouth actually dropped open.

 

It was swing dancing; the base steps were still the same, if just sped up drastically. But Cameron didn't seem to  _ do  _ the steps so much as  _ breathe  _ through them, moving so fast she barely saw where one step started and where the next began. He moved Nina around the floor lightning fast, but so controlled neither of them slipped or faltered once, catching hands every time and executing turns perfectly. He spun her around and they danced back-to-front, pausing at moments that Kirsten was sure she never would have been able to remember and picking up as though somebody had simply pressed play on a remote. It was breathtaking; she couldn't even cheer with the rest of the audience, who were clapping and whistling their appreciation for the footwork that was blowing everybody away. It seemed almost impossible that  _ anybody _ could move their feet that fast and still be the pillar and direction and guide for their partner, let alone  _ Cameron _ .

 

“I know,” Camille said, fondly amused as she patted Kirsten's knee. “I thought the same thing before I saw him dance the first time. Just assumed, 'Hey, it's  _ swing dancing _ , how difficult could that be?' And then he did  _ this  _ in front of me and went into these – oh! Look, they're going to do it right now!”

 

_ It  _ turned out to be flips. They'd done little jumps and twists before, but now Cameron was lifting Nina up and twisting her through the air, or lifting her onto his back or his shoulders or throwing her up, catching her, twisting her, and then letting her somersault onto him before he propelled her – powerfully but oh so very  _ gently –  _ away so they could slip back into the base steps, moving their feet even faster than before.

 

“He's...  _ good _ .” A huge understatement to be sure, but her brain still seemed to be stalling watching him move.

 

“Nina is the only one who can keep up with him, just about,” Camille laughed. “And she says even she is overwhelmed at times.” Kirsten could feel Camille watching her, but she couldn't seem to pull her eyes away from Cameron, grin wide as he slid under Nina's legs, leaped up, and immediately caught her mid-twirl and began the swing step again seamlessly. “You should bunk the last workshop today, if you can,” Camille said, casually. “Come hang with us. We usually find a quiet hall and muck about with fusion dances. Throwing a ballerina into the mix will be fun. Not  _ literally _ ,” she added, as Cameron flung Nina halfway across the stage and helped her land impressively. “Not until you're comfortable with it.”

 

Kirsten opened her mouth, unsure of what to say not because she didn’t know how to most politely articulate it, but because she had no idea what she felt about the situation at all. The dance ended and the audience erupted in applause, Cameron joining in with a huge grin so Nina was showered in appreciation from everybody in the room before he allowed his partner to pull him into a bow as well. He came up from his bow and caught Kirsten’s eyes, and somehow she could see the fire and sparkle in them from where she sat. She nodded at Camille, still speechless, her heart thudding weirdly in her chest.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes Camille wondered what would have become of her had she not run into Cameron. There were very few people in her life she truly felt deserved anything from her. It was easier to do things for herself entirely, never owing anyone a thing. After all, the majority of people she’d known had taken and taken until she found herself unwilling to give anymore. 

 

Cameron, though… she thought maybe she owed him the world, the sun, the stars, and all of the happy things the universe had to offer. He was one of the rare people that actually deserved it. 

 

Growing up was hard. She could barely even remember living in a house; the only memories of that place were of  a threadbare carpet, thin walls, and angry voices. After that was the trailer, small and hot and far too cramped for a little girl to grow up properly in. Her parents never bothered keeping their voices down when they fought, and Theo cried himself to sleep almost as often as they fought. As a child it’d seemed like an endless nightmare. 

 

As she’d grown older Camille had been allowed to wander beyond the nothingness and hopelessness of the trailer park, venturing into the town. That was where she saw dance,  _ real _ dance, for the very first time. It was at a tiny studio in town, and she watched with wide eyes and her tiny forehead pressed up against the glass window until someone shooed her away. For days afterwards the images of twirling dancers and the hollow, haunted music was trapped in her head. Camille didn’t know how’d she’d learn to dance the way those girls did, but she knew she would, somehow. 

 

It took her a few years to work up the courage to even go in. She had no money, and no parents willing to “waste” their money on anything so frivolous as dance. Instead she snuck into her elementary’s computer room every lunch period or free periods, looking up videos to mimic underneath the bright fluorescent lights. At home she stretched in the dirt and few pathetic blades of grass, dancing clumsily whenever she heard music from a radio coming from one of the other trailers. 

 

She could have happily existed like that forever, dancing in the dirt in bare feet, if it hadn’t been for Theo throwing insults her way whenever he passed. She was too awkward, too clumsy, and too stupid to ever be a good dancer (though she’d soon find that he’d mock her for dance whether she was good or not). It made her blood boil and her determination stronger than ever, and so when she turned fourteen she finally went into the tiny studio.

 

At first Camille lingered outside the few large rooms the studio had, saying she was waiting for an older sister to get out of class as her excuse to hang around. She’d peer in at all the dancers and press her ear up against the door, listening for the instructor’s words. It wasn’t ideal, but it was  _ something _ . It was more than she’d ever known. Watching and listening led her to the corrections she needed to make, and all the styles of dance she’d been missing out on. 

 

Contemporary was easily her favorite. It was controlled in some aspects, always technically flawless - or as flawless as she could manage - but so free and flowing too. No one had ever explained to her how to get out emotions in a healthy way; Theo tended to go for a more aggressive approach, and her parents always drank and yelled. With dance, she could scream and shout wordlessly, about every frustration with her family and every fear about being stuck in that trailer park for the rest of her life. Every time she danced, a little bit of those negative emotions seemed to leak out of her body and trickle away. 

 

She’d been convinced her ruse as someone waiting for a sibling would hold up forever when two years later, she was finally caught. 

 

By then Camille had known the people who came and went in the building. They’d hired a new guy a few weeks before, some man named Quincy who taught hip hop on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then did workshops out of town the rest of the week. She caught him watching her once, one eyebrow raised skeptically at her total fascination with the class she was watching and the way she’d been mimicking the steps in the hallway. He never stopped her or asked her anything, though she’d seen him glancing to her while talking to a few instructors. 

 

It was another week before he approached her hands on his hips, and asked, “You don’t really have any siblings here, do you?”

 

She’d flinched, not yet good at lying as she’d learn to be someday. “I… what? I do, why else would I be waiting around here?” 

 

He shrugged. “You know, I asked myself the same thing. Why would you do that? Surely it’s got nothing to do with the way you’ve been watching those contemporary classes so closely, or why I keep catching you dancing in the halls here while classes are happening.” 

 

“I’ll just go, no need to make a scene.” Camille told him, scrambling to gather up her backpack and jacket. It was always the adults who ruined what little enjoyment she had in her life, she thought, and a tight knot began to form in her throat as she stood to leave.

 

“Hey, hey, I never said anything about leaving.” he chided, moving to stand in front of her. “You’re actually not too bad.”

 

“Really?” 

He nodded. “Really. Your form isn't great and your technique could use a lot of work, but you have the passion and flexibility.”

 

She just stood there, utterly stunned, amazed that there was any tiny scrap of hope that maybe she was good at the thing she loved.  “Wow, I… um, thank you.” She wanted to ask a million more questions; How could she improve? What did he think needed to change? What could she still learn? Camille knew those answers all came at a cost, unfortunately, so simply stood and stared up at the dance teacher, hoping for anything good. 

 

“You don’t take lessons?” He asked at last. She shook her head. “Money problems?” A nod this time, and he looked as if he’d already known the answer. “I’ll offer you a deal, then. Those contemporary classes? All yours, I’ll take care of it. All you have to do is take a few hip hop classes and ballet as well.” 

 

“But ballet’s so _ boring _ ,” she grumbled, in a way he’d soon get used to. 

 

He laughed at that, gently patting her shoulder. “Ballet is how you learn good technique. Your name’s Camille, right? I never introduced myself, I’m Quincy Fisher. Most of the kids that take lessons here just call me Fisher.”

 

It was only when she looked back that she ever realized how he’d been most of the reason why she’d ever gotten into a performing arts school or made it anywhere in the dance world. He was one of the very few that she knew she owed so, so much. He’d given her a good life, in a ways, and taken her away from the chaos of home that would've driven her insane. Fisher had been a combination of the brother and father she’d never really had but desperately yearned for. 

 

With Cameron it was different. 

 

The first time she caught sight of him was across the room at the beginning of a dance workshop. Her heart was thudding hard in her chest, nervousness creeping through her veins at the sheer number of people (who she was sure were far more talented than her) when she saw him. Tall, lanky, with a head full of hair that looked like it wanted to escape and a utterly friendly smile that didn’t belong among the rather competitive glances passing through the room. 

 

He was cute, in the way that chipmunks were cute until a hawk swooped in and snatched them up for dinner. 

 

Camille cast him a wink and a grin just before the instructor arrived, one that he returned wholeheartedly. It was a shame, she thought, because this poor, friendly guy was about to be eaten alive and out-danced in less than a minute, or so she thought. 

 

It was just one in many assumptions she would make about him that were wrong. 

 

He kept up well enough with the group, and when they were all partnered up she found herself being pushed and prodded into his arms. “I’m Camille,” she said, the crowd around them moving too fast for her to offer him anything else.

 

“Cameron,” he replied, with that huge, unwavering smile she’d soon get so used to seeing. “Hold on tight, Pumpkin.” 

 

The nickname caught her off guard as much as his dancing did. From far away he’d appeared decent enough to keep up, but up close he was more than decent. Most partners she’d ever danced with in her life were good, but there was this element of competitiveness that made it difficult to dance with them. In the world of young dancer, dancers her age, Camille had found that even in partner dances it was as if she was competing against her partner, not dancing with them; being good got your recognized and for most of the men who were supposed to act more as a stable base and support for her dancing (as was the norm in partner dancing), they tried to break out from that. It was completely fair, of course, in the world of dance. Everyone had to make themselves known if they wanted to stay employed. 

 

Cameron, however, was the absolutely opposite. They did a minute or so of basic ballroom steps, and he stayed resolute and reliable, giving her the space to actually  _ dance _ . Every time she twirled away from in only to spin back, he was exactly as she’d left him. 

 

“You’re good.” she told him, voice barely reaching him over the music. His cheeks flushed the slightest bit at the compliment and she pressed forward, insisting, “Really, I mean it.”

 

“You’re incredible.”

 

She was taken aback by the pure sincerity in his voice (though really, at this point she should have started expecting him to constantly surprise her). Camille didn’t know what to say to that, other than a joke or something self-deprecating, so she settled for, “Well, you know, it’s really just a hobby. Imagine how great I’d be if this was my career,” every word dripping with sarcasm.   
  


Whatever spell or trance had held them both in a moment of tense instability broke, and he laughed. “Oh, I can’t even imagine it. I’m sure you’d have already blown everyone’s minds with your badass dance moves.” 

 

“Oh, totally. You haven’t seen anything yet.” 

 

And so they fell into the pattern of meeting up for workshops or classes the entire week of the convention, becoming friends as easily and naturally as they’d learned to dance with each other. He had the uncanny ability to make her smile no matter how exhausted she might be, and he gave her as much sass and she gave him. The last night of the convention they talked half the night away at a sleepy little diner between their two hotels, exchanged phone numbers, and then parted ways with promises to see each other again still hanging in the cool night air. 

 

Camille had never really been sure about conventions, as useful as they could be, but next time Cameron texted her mentioning one he was going to just outside of Bakersfield, she agreed to it. 

 

In retrospect, it really hadn’t been the best idea. 

 

It’d barely been a day when he showed up, as caustic and spiteful as she’d remembered. Camille had been stretching in one of the much emptier rooms, waiting for Cameron to show up for an improv session he’d promised, when Theo came into her field of vision. 

 

“Theo?” it was partially an accusation, partially a question, all mixed together with guilt and fear. He’d always had a knack for finding her at the very moments her life started to seem good again.

 

He grinned, wide and almost predatory. “Hey, Millie, it feels like I haven’t seen you in ages. Who would’ve guessed I’d run into you at a silly thing like this?”

 

“You know, I could say the exact same about you.” She snapped. “Why are you here? This was never your type of place, if I recall correctly.” 

 

Theo shrugged. “I got some odd jobs around here, that’s all. Some of us pay the bills with real jobs.” 

 

“I have a real job.” she said, eyes narrowing at him. 

 

“Yeah, I’m sure the dance thing works out well enough. It’s not long term, though, and you know it. I’ve got something much more permanent that’ll keep me happy and well-funded long into retirement.” 

 

“Oh?” She knew she’d regret ever giving him that room to explain whatever it was he had going on in his life, but she did anyways. There was always that tiny, nagging voice in the back of her head; _ He’s your brother. You owe him this. You left him before, at least give him this moment.  _

 

He nodded, leaning in and lowering his voice like it was something so incredibly special. “Yeah, I’ve made a few… investments.” 

 

“Investments?” 

 

“Nothing you’d understand,” he told her haughtily, which really meant that she would understand and would highly disapprove. He continued on, despite her skeptical expression, saying, “You know, I could really use a couple thousand to help kick start those investments even further. It’d really help me out, especially after the rough start I got.” 

 

And there it was;  _ especially after the rough start I got _ . Camille knew what that meant. That meant,  _ You left me. You abandoned me and it’s your fault I’ve never straightened my life out.  _ Taking a deep, shaky breath, she said, “Theo, I really can’t help you with any ‘business investments’ right now. I actually have a normal, nice life to live right now. I know that’s a foreign concept to you, really, but try and wrap your mind around it for just a minute.” 

 

“How nice it must be, to get to have a nice normal life like that.” He said, eyes darkening in a way that was so unnervingly familiar to her. 

 

“I lived the same life you did!” She hated that her lower lip had started to tremble, and that hot, angry tears were welling in her eyes. “I grew up in that miserable place side-by-side with you, Theo. We had the same chance to make a life for ourselves, and it’s not my fault that you never did anything to make your life better.”

 

“You  _ left  _ me!” His voice was full of anger and hurt, in a way that reminded her of the scared little boy she’d grown up in that trailer with. So angry, and so willing to blame anyone for how miserable he was. 

 

“I did  _ everything _ for you!” she insisted. “God, Theo, I put up with you for years. Do you know how scared I was sometimes? How sad I was? I did everything I could but you never changed. It’s not my fault if you’re unhappy with the way your life is. It wasn’t my place to fix it.” 

 

He stood there silently for a moment, arms trembling as hard as her whole body was. She wondered if he’d shout, or scream, or make more of a scene than he already had (the few dancers in the room had already quickly walked out when he’d first started to shout). Instead he just glared at her before quietly saying, “Family don’t abandon each other.” before walking out. 

 

“No,” she agreed quietly, watching him go, “They don’t.” 

 

Cameron showed up fifteen minutes later to find her exactly in the same place, limbs still trembling with leftover adrenaline and anger, lips pressed together tightly in a thin line. He approached cautiously, coming to sit down next to her. “Camille…?”

 

“I’m  _ fine _ . Just… just give me a minute.” 

 

He did so, quietly settling down and watching her with eyes so soft and pained that it made her want to cry. Her cheeks burned, head full of thoughts of shame and guilt - what had she done to deserve Theo? Or her family? Or any of it? This wasn’t something she’d ever wanted Cameron to witness, even if he had no idea what he was witnessing. It was far easier to cope with life when she just pretended as if the first eighteen years of her life had never happened at all. 

 

Camille had expected Cameron to leave when it became clear she wasn’t in the mood to dance. He didn’t, though, and instead sat resolutely beside her, not once breaking the silence. She’d started to think he’d fallen asleep when she felt gentle, hesitant movements next to her and the sensation of fingers lightly brushing against the back of her neck. A soft noise of surprise escaped her lips, but she didn’t move. 

 

His fingers trailed down further, lightly tracing down her spine until he’d reached the small of her back, then drew them back up again. It was such a quiet reminder that he was there, silent little  _ you’re okay _ gestures that made her muscles loosen and her heart slow down until she found her body sagging heavily against his, like she’d just run a marathon instead of had a tiny, insignificant argument. 

 

Cameron wrapped an arm around her waist, tucking her against his side ever-so-cautiously. “Did you want to talk about it?” he asked her. His voice was so soft, so  _ different _ from how she was used to being spoken to that it nearly broke her heart.

 

“Not right now.” she murmured, head falling against his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

After that, being friends was just second nature. Camille might not have known everything about his life, at first, and he hadn’t known the much about hers, but it was enough to know he’d be there without question. 

 

They went to convention after convention, taking the world by storm (or at least Cameron claimed they were) and living to the very fullest those few days each con held. They were inseparable even with other friends around, always casting each other secret looks or giggling at inside jokes. Her very favorite part of the conventions, however, was always improv with Cameron. 

 

He had a way with people, sweet-talking them into letting him and Camille have some of those huge convention halls all to themselves without it ever once seeming skeevy or unkind. She sometimes thought that he just radiated so much sunshine and happiness that other picked up on it. And really, who could deny that face? 

 

That, however, wasn’t the case went they headed to the room they’d asked Kirsten to meet them at. 

 

The women who tried to come and take their dance hall from them were decked almost entirely in glitter, and annoyed Camille from the moment they opened their mouths. The convention was full of people, many of them with the same idea as Camille and Cameron - find some free time, snag a space not being used, dance your ass off. She understood the appeal and the excitement, and even understood their personal drive to practise for the showcase they were performing in the next day. What she refused to understand was the entitled, rude, demeaning way they marched in there  _ ten minutes  _ after Camille and Cameron had found the place deserted and claimed that they had more right to the space than Cameron and Camille did. Just because there were more than two of them, or because they had fancy costumes, or because they were from some posh dance academy, or because they had money, or because they assumed another of their rehearsals was so much more important than any improv fun Camille and Cameron would be doing, or because they thought their tap dancing was superior in style and skill level. 

 

Every one of those reasons pissed Camille off. Mostly because all said reasons were flung scornfully and covertly and dismissively at them despite both Camille and Cameron being absolutely pleasant and friendly and polite when the troupe had first come in. Cameron had finally gently pulled Camille away from the troupe's ringleader, probably because he was scared she might actually deck the girl for some of the things she was saying, glittered butterfly on her face or not. Cameron, of course, remained unphased under the bottle-made redhead’s sharp tongue, taking every blatant insult and every covert snide remark in stride and answering calmly, gently, yet firmly. That was what made Camille’s blood  _ really  _ boil; the fact that a woman who didn’t even  _ know  _ Cameron was tearing into him and his character and his dance skills and his supposed audacity, and Cameron was not doing a thing to defend himself. 

 

Finally, Camille decided she’d had enough. This was  _ their  _ hall and that was  _ her  _ friend they were verbally attacking and she was not about to let them take either their practise space or any more of Cameron’s integrity. Flipping through her phone, she found the exact cover song she wanted and plugged it into the portable speakers, turning up the volume as high as it would go. When Mayday Parade’s cover version started, the kick of the guitar was so loud it made every other person in the room jump visibly. Putting a sweet smile on her face, Camille tied up her hair, pulled off her jacket, and then began strutting toward Cameron sensually, singing him the lyrics as she went. 

 

“Everybody’s looking for love, oh. Ain’t that the reason you’re at this club, oh.” She curled an arm around Cameron’s neck from behind and slowly, brushing up against him as she did, walked around until she was facing him, all but hip-checking the tapdancer out of the way. “You ain’t gonna find it dancing with him, no. I got a better solution for you girl, oh.”

 

Camille didn’t bother changing the pronouns; this wasn’t about performing some overly sexual mating ritual to beat out the glittered competition for Cameron’s affections. He was, firstly, not one to be attracted to such a display. Secondly, she was not the sort to ever want a person in her life who needed such antics and competition just so their ego could get stroked. Thirdly, for all the confusion that still lay in the depths of her heart about how deep her attraction to Cameron went, she had  _ no doubt  _ whatsoever that she had his affections without having to  _ do anything  _ at all. They’d connected on a level she couldn’t explain, and somehow she was sure right into her bones that no matter what he’d be there for her. Just like she’d be there for him. Even if the sparks of electricity were just dance-related excitement and chemistry, they would simply remain friends who grew closer and closer together throughout the years. 

 

That didn’t mean they couldn’t have a little bit of ridiculous fun together, of course. Thank shit Cameron shared her sense of humour. 

 

Beckoning him along, still singing along to the lyrics, Camille led him into the middle of the hall by the curl of her finger alone while the tapdancers glared and twittered in his wake. Cameron glanced at them once in a final apology that they would not give up the space that was rightfully theirs and then followed Camille without hesitation or question, a smile fighting the corners of his mouth at her exaggeratedly swaying hips and the way she kept fussing with her hair in a very cliche club-dancing move. He sang along to  _ you’ll see a side of love you’ve never known _ , as though confirming her certainty in whatever the bond between them was called, but then quieted as she finally stopped swaying around seductively and placed her hands in his, body pressed up close. 

 

She remembered the first time she’d “danced dirty” in front of him, and the first time she’d broken the polite distance he was used to from swing dancing. He’d turned from bubbly and witty to bright red and painfully shy, looking almost horrified by what she was showing him. They’d come a long way together, this tender-hearted nerd and her. And the way they could now dance together was only one of the ways that journey was symbolised. 

 

They waited, Camille listening for his guidance and Cameron testing the music and what she was telling him she wanted to do through her body language. And when the chorus hit he took a step backwards, bracing himself to form the pillar and pivot and extension she needed to turn the music into her brand of magic. Cameron was much more fluid with his dance styles than he let on, but as usual he took a back seat and let her have her chance to speak and shine- she caught him, in the brief moments her eyes landed on his face, smiling true and warm as he watched her move. The improv dance kept them connected a lot, either pressed together and moving in a mimic of a ballroom step, or joined by specific parts as he lifted her in a combination of styles. The instrumental solo after the second chorus let them really go wild, throwing in swing steps amongst the ballet steps and one or two ballroom moves so they whirled and leaped and curled and moved together without stopping for an instant. They moved slower at the bridge, his hand curled into her hair in the most delightful way, their faces inches apart as they circled each other in a contemporary orbit, his body the fixed point she needed for some semi-lifts and half a dip before the chorus came back and he pulled her into four of the best lifts they’d developed together, one for every beat of the toned down first bit of the chorus before it kicked into full gear again. 

 

They finished with her feet off the ground, and she was laughing breathlessly by the time he lowered her gently to the floor again. She bopped his nose in affection and he laughed at her, also panting but looking strangely fond and pleased. Camille glanced to see if the tapdancing girls were around to pass judgement, but there was only one other person in the room. Kirsten. Her face was carefully neutral, as though there had been some other emotion there that she didn’t want them to see. Camille nudged Cameron and he turned his genuinely delighted smile on her, no doubt dazzling her. 

 

“You came! Welcome! Come on up here. Don’t worry - I’ll put the stud muffin away. It’s been satisfied after all that.”

 

Camille snorted at him, and Kirsten got this funny, endearing little half-smile on her face like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or openly scoff at the ridiculousness of Cameron and stud muffin being synonymous. Cameron, still delighted, clapped his hands and turned to Camille in expectation. 

 

“Swing steps first? Because ballet and contemp are more similar than ballet and step?” 

 

Translation - he really wanted to teach her swing dancing, but didn’t want Camille to feel hurt or left out in any way. She patted his shoulder gently as she said, “Best get the boring and the easy one out the way first, yeah.”

 

“Says the girl who fell flat on her face the day I first started teaching you swing.”

 

“Says the guy who’s totally ridiculous  _ yank  _ landed me on my face.”

 

Cameron disconnected her phone and put his on, going to the much-loved and much-played favourite she was sure was one of his comfort songs as well as his go-to because the beat was perfect. The entire thing was just absolutely  _ cheesy  _ \- absolutely, endearingly Cameron. 

 

“Hall and Oates!” He exclaimed happily, and the absolute confusion on Kirsten’s face made Camille unable to hold back a bark of laughter. 

 

“The name of the band that plays this song,” she filled the blonde in. “It’s an eighties thing, I don’t know.”

 

“ _ The Wedding Singer _ ?” Cameron said, looking hopeful. “I wanna grow old with you?”

 

“Yeah,  _ nobody  _ in our generation knows what that movie is,” Camille said, giving him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Come on, grandpa. Let’s show her how it’s done and then you can get all close and cuddly.” She didn’t miss the way his cheeks turned pink at her words, and something inside her warmed at the sight. It looked like  _ somebody  _ might have the beginnings of a little crush. 

 

She didn’t tease him about it in front of Kirsten herself, and instead swallowed her smirk as she moved in front of Cameron, letting him subtly correct her stance a little bit so they’d be showing Kirsten pure swing instead of the mashup they’d created together. Cameron talked Kirsten through the basic steps and Camille obediently gave evidence of his words, moving slowly at first and then faster, more fluid, when it was time to show her what it looked like all put together. Sixteen beats of Cameron leading Camille in swing and then her and Kirsten swapped places and roles. It didn’t take long for Kirsten to pick up Cameron’s rhythm or the basic swing step, and before twenty minutes had passed she was comfortably moving around and even going for a few turns with little trouble. But while she was proficient in the technical sense of it, Camille could see very clearly that every move was mechanical and without the character swing needed to possess. 

 

“She’s got the theory down to a pinch,” Camille said, circling like a vulture as she watched the two of them move. “But it don’t mean a thing if she ain’t got that  _ swing _ .”

 

“I am teaching you so well,” Cameron beamed, looking pleased as punch. Camille gave him a mocking salute. “Seriously, though, Stretch.” Camille saw Kirsten start a little at the nickname, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “You  _ do  _ need to loosen up a little bit. Swing… well, it requires you to  _ swing  _ a little. You gotta get down a little lower than other ballroom dances and you have to…” He stuck out his arm and gave her a jazz hand while leaning back on only one leg, the other stuck out in front of him. 

 

“The thing with swing, too, is that you have to learn to listen to your partner,” Camille took over, still circling and watching Kirsten’s stiff, measured steps with a critical eye. “Sure, you learn all the steps beforehand but it’s not like ballet or contemporary, which are all planned to the last dot of the i and happen the same way every time. In a dance he could see another couple you need to avoid, or any other number of things or  _ moods  _ that will prompt him to tell you that you’re changing the move to something different, or adding something new in, or going completely off script. He’s the lead in this pair, so it’s his job to do that sort of thing. And his right to. If you’re not loose and ready to listen to him, things aren’t going to go so well.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at Cameron and, catching her drift, he raised his right hand slightly and twisted his wrist a little to the right. Camille knew what that move felt like under her fingers, and knew it was Cameron asking her to turn out. But Kirsten didn’t get the message, and when he let go and pushed at her all she did was falter with a noise of surprise, her feet tangling in the most ungraceful move Camille had ever seen her make to date. Cameron caught her a moment later, of course, righting her with ease and no harm done, but the look on her face was suddenly wary. 

 

“What’s the point,” Kirsten asked, sounding frustrated in a way that made Camille instantly intrigued, “to learning a dance if you’re not going to stick to the steps? It seems kind of…” She paused, pursed her lips, and then said bluntly, “Irrelevant.” 

 

Cameron simply smiled at her gently and very slowly, exaggerating each of his moves so she could pull away at any time, pulled her forward again and began the basic swing steps again. “Most of it  _ is  _ planned,” he assured her. “But it’s got elements of both choreography and improv in it. So it’s as much about  _ feeling  _ as it is about knowing how to step.” Kirsten frowned deeply and, even more gently, Cameron told her, “You’re not alone in this, Stretch. It’s a  _ partner  _ dance. And I’m not going to suddenly be asking crazy things from you, I promise. I swear I’m going to get you where you need to go; exactly the point you need to be at. You just… need to trust me.”

 

She looked at him, swallowed a little and said, softly, “I just met you.”

 

The look of hurt surprise that flashed across Cameron’s face was like a punch in the gut for Camille. He trusted so easily and so openly, meeting somebody who resisted that trust or giving it back when all he had in his head were the best intentions threw him for a loop. Kirsten, it seemed, was more like Camille; a little jaded and a little wary and a little too used to protecting herself against the harshness of the world. She couldn’t blame the blonde for reacting in a way that she herself understood on a deep level. And yet the need to leap to Cameron’s defence rose like a hot wave inside Camille, even as sombre understanding crossed his face and she knew he’d be as gentle and forgiving with Kirsten as he’d been with her. 

 

“So you got the basics,” she said, already forming a plan that would Cameron’s back and not unfairly hurt Kirsten in any way with her fiercely protective desire. “Now let’s go to the basics of partner contemporary.” Cameron and Kirsten stepped away from each other, the former backing up a few paces to give the women some space. “He might not look like much  _ at all  _ at the best of times,” Camille began, before Cameron gave a snort and cut her off. 

 

“ _ Please _ . I’m so a six. A seven when I’m really polished up.”

 

“The only place you’re a seven is in the kitchen, Goodkin. And this is  _ dance con _ , not Masterchef.”

 

Cameron gave her a wounded look, and for a moment her heart skipped when she thought she might have gone too far with the teasing and actually hit a nerve. But then he crossed his eyes at her in a comic fashion and muttered grumpily, “See if I ever make you Cami-cakes ever again.”

 

“He might not  _ look like much _ ,” Camille said loudly and pointedly, getting them back on track before Kirsten decided to run for the hills from their madness, “but he actually does have brains under all that hair. He’s steady and  _ reliable  _ and he can learn pretty much anything you throw at him. As soon as he’s learned to read how you communicate through your body when you dance, you’ll be able to tell him anything. And then it won’t just be him communicating the next steps to you in the swing sections; you’ll be able to use him in whatever way you need to. Take it from somebody who knows.” She took a few steps closer to the blonde, who watched her come with a strangely wary look on her face. Leaning in so Kirsten was the only one who could hear her, Camille whispered, “I’m going to spring a surprise lift on him. Watch my hands on his shoulders; that’s how I’ll let him know. And even though it’s out of the blue he  _ will  _ catch me and make it work.”

 

Camille’s conviction was stronger than the doubtful look that Kirsten had been wearing subtly throughout Camille’s whole speech and that had grown to something clearly noticeable by the end of the whispered plan. The only way to fight such doubt, she knew from personal experience, was to have it removed by hard evidence. It was the main reason besides getting Cameron the recognition and praise he deserved that had made Camille so insistent that Kirsten see him dance; Kirsten would never have  _ understood  _ if she hadn’t seen. 

 

Not bothering with music, Camille held out a hand to Cameron and got them both into a typical starting position. Counting out a beat a few times, they began to move. They did very simple steps, sticking to the rhythm Cameron kept by occasionally tapping his foot on the floor. And then, after a quick  _ développé  _ she placed her hand on his shoulder with her fingers splayed, squeezing quickly. Cameron had been dancing with her long enough to know that signal, and when she leapt at him a beat later he was more than ready, catching her and taking her into a solid star lift before setting her back down. There was a confused pucker to his eyebrows at her step decision and she had to grin at it, patting his shoulder in a little apology for surprising him like that. 

 

“See?” she told Kirsten. “That was  _ totally _ left field. Not even a little bit instinctive, not even practical, to have a lift there. But he listened.” 

 

Some of the confusion disappeared from Cameron’s face as he realised she’d been teaching Kirsten something, and in its place a little playful glower appeared. “It sounds like you’re showing off your trained dog,” he sulked. 

 

“Puppy, you mean.” She ruffled his hair. “ _ Good  _ boy. Now roll over.” Giving her a quick, roguish grin, Cameron dropped immediately to the floor to give her a back shoulder roll. Camille had to laugh at him, delighted despite herself. “You’re  _ such  _ a dork,” she sighed at him, pulling a disgusted face she didn’t even mean. Kirsten, she saw, had a grin on her face as well, her brown eyes soft with their amusement. The doubt had vanished, and while Camille wasn’t naive enough to think it wouldn’t resurface, she knew the foundations had been laid and laid well. “Should we see if we could actually choreograph something?” she asked Kirsten gently, and the smile turned to her direction, less amused but no less warm.

 

“That… sounds like a plan,” Kirsten said, and sounded genuine. 

 

“Got any songs in mind?” Cameron asked enthusiastically, jumping back to his feet. 

 

Kirsten shook her head. “All mine are… uh… instrumental.”

 

“Shuffle game, then?” Camille asked him, and he nodded and set out toward the stereo system. “We have this thing,” Camille explained to Kirsten as he went, “where we create a playlist of a whole bunch of songs we’d really love to dance to and then hit shuffle and the first one that comes on is the song we have to work with at the moment. Sound okay to you?”

 

There was only one half-beat of hesitation. “Yeah, sure.”

 

“We’ll start out with ballet,” Camille said, kindly. “Which you’ll have to take point on, because I’ve never been to a ballet class in my  _ life _ . And then we’ll move on to mixing it up with other things.” Starting out by putting Kirsten in charge and in her comfort zone would be the very best thing, she knew, and it would also give her another chance to see the blonde’s dancing style so she could see how best to use her later. “Don’t forget to put it on repeat,” she called to Cameron as the song started. 

 

“Uh… so ballet as a starting point?” he questioned, pulling a slight face as he gestured to himself and then made a so-so gesture with his hand. 

 

A smile curled up the corners of Kirsten’s lips as Camille giggled. “ _ We’ll  _ do the ballet, Quickstep. For this part  _ you  _ just stand there waiting to be needed, looking like a five.” Cameron pretended to growl at her, teeth bared in some parody of a dog. “Woof,” Camille said in response, giving him a lecherous wink. “Okay, Kirsten. Let’s do this thing.” 

 

The two girls shared a grin while Cameron settled down to wait and watch patiently behind them. 

 

***

  
  


The woman responsible for cleaning Cameron’s floor in the hotel had seen Camille slouching in and out of his room enough times in the past week to not need much convincing to let Camille inside with her master key. Camille thanked her warmly a fifth time and sauntered into the neatly-kept room, delighted that she now wouldn’t have to wait around counting ceiling tiles before she was allowed to get their customary Last Night Slumberparty started. Of course, hearing Cameron yowl like a cat in pure surprise when she opened his bathroom door to announce her presence delighted her even  _ more _ . After controlling her laughter long enough to wheeze an apology, Camille flopped down on his bed, leaving the door open so they could talk to each other even as he finished up in the shower. 

 

She could never remember what they talked about on those last nights; it seemed as though they tried to squeeze in every word they could ever want to say to each other because they knew the end was coming. Deep talk was for the other nights of con; the last night was for arguing which major brand of makeup would make the best  _ Star Wars  _ themed cosmetics and how often toilet brushes should be replaced and what to do about a place that used floor polish with a smell they hated. Camille brought their dinner to the bed, amused that the takeout was already very pointedly placed in bowls for their consumption, and argued the benefits of curtains over blinds around sneaky mouthfulls of noodles while she lay and watched Cameron poke around in his own eyes so he could remove his contacts. 

 

And then, so suddenly she was sure a switch had been activated by his foot stepping over the threshold from the bathroom to the bedroom, the atmosphere in the room  _ shifted _ . She was suddenly very aware that he was a few paces in front of her in nothing but a towel, carefully picking through his suitcase for his sleeping clothes. She was suddenly very aware that of all the types of muscle definition in the world, she loved those of dancers best, and that Cameron hid a lot of the beautiful evidence of his hard work and passion underneath his waistcoats. She was suddenly very aware that there were still water droplets on parts of his skin, that his glasses made her heart twist a little in warmth, that his smile was shyer but still so open when he was in this space of softness and quietness and safety. She was suddenly very aware that she was in  _ his bed  _ with nothing but a thin shirt and some sleeping shorts, and that despite their quips about the matter she really  _ could  _ just open her eyes and he’d be naked in front of her. 

 

Cameron was a good friend - a  _ great  _ friend. The best sort she’d never imagined she’d be able to find. They joked well together, did deep well together, understood each other’s moods and needs well and knew how to dance together in a way she knew she would never find with another person. Most of the time, that connection of trust and finding somebody who got it was enough. Most of the time, she knew enough about the business of dance to recognise that what her and Cameron had sparking between them was great professional and personality-driven dance chemistry, the same sort of thing that made two singers sound above-average great together or that made two actors really be able to sell their roles on screen. 

 

And then there were times like that, when all her rapidly-beating heart wanted to do was crawl over to him and kiss him and never stop. Those were the times when she remembered what she’d been too distracted by dancing to notice at the time; his half-naked body pressed to her mostly-naked body and his face up close and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her. Those were the times when the bed felt impossibly tiny; when the thought of him in just boxers and a shirt beside her was so distracting she wanted to scream. And it wasn’t just about the thoughts of sex. She didn’t want Cameron’s body. She wanted  _ Cameron _ . 

 

“So have you left  _ anything  _ for me to eat?”

 

She opened her eyes again to find him slipping into bed beside her, and the way he paused, leaning half over her made her breath catch. A nameless look she’d seen plenty of times before crept across his face, and he leaned even closer. Camille’s heart thundered. Her hands wanted to wrap themselves in his still-wet hair. “Of course I did. All that crappy beef and broccoli is still left.”

 

The spell broke and they were back to being the best of friends cuddling platonically in his bed for a marathon of movies and talking. They bickered over the food some more and about what movie to watch first, and as always Camille threatened him with violence should he start quoting along with the film at  _ any  _ stage. They slipped closer, her head leaning against his shoulder as they ate and swapped bowls and commented on the movie and wished that it could always be this easy to reach out and touch the other. 

 

“So…” Cameron said suddenly, scratching at the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested a little nervously. “What do you think about Kirsten?”

 

“Awwww,  _ baby _ . Somebody’s crushing  _ already _ . Do you want to hold her hand? Do you wanna  _ kiss  _ her?”

 

He shoved at her gently. “I meant as a  _ dancer _ .” But he was blushing and couldn’t meet her eye. 

 

Camille considered this for a moment, chewing her words around in her head before spitting them out like she usually would. Despite her teasing she knew this was careful territory to navigate. “She’s got serious skill. She’s methodological and brilliant and attentive and… well… how do I say this without sounding mean? A… bit of a robot. But that can be taught out of her. I mean, heaven forbid but she actually did something fluid at the end there today. As a person… I dunno. She’s a little socially awkward but also endearing. And pretty easy to get along with.” 

 

“So you like her?”

 

“Yeah, Cam. I do like her quite well.”

 

He tapped a rhythm on his knee for a few moments, and she took the opportunity to steal the last of his food that he’d been saving, twisting her body when he tried to retaliate so he backed off and didn’t cause her to choke or whatever Cameron-invented danger he thought he could pose to her. “What do you think of the idea of… inviting her to be part of our Meet Up At Cons crew?”

 

“No. I as supreme judge of this friendship say you may not invite another dancer to hang out with us when we go to cons,” she said, sarcastically. “Really, how long have you wanted to ask me this? Is this what the weird silence in the car was?”

 

“I just…I want  _ you  _ to want this too. I only get to see you at these cons. And I don’t want  _ anybody _ , even a great dancer and person like Kirsten, to come in between that in any way.” Things shifted to that unknown place again as soon as he turned that intense, open honesty and affection straight into her eyes. “You’re my best girl,” he insisted. 

 

“What am I, Disney’s version of Maleficent who curses people because she feels she didn’t get invited to the party?” She bumped her forehead onto his, knocking his glasses a bit askew in the process. “I think Kirsten joining us - joining  _ us _ \- would be a good idea.She dances well. Her skills and thoughts about choreo will bring us a really cool edge.” He grinned at her, bright like sunshine, and she smiled back, snuggled closer, and continued to watch the movie. “Besides,” she added into the comfortable silence, “she  _ is  _ a pretty cool person. Who knows what could come of it?”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The city was in that strange limbo where the day-treaders were winding down and the night-walkers were only starting to stir. Cameron enjoyed the unpredictability of that time of day - loved that any type of person and situation seemed not only entirely possible in general, but entirely possible to encounter on his journey to work. He tended to leave the house early so he could take the long way to the offices, winding in-between traffic and watching the people of the city show him morsels of their unique brilliance as their lives touched his briefly. 

 

Even barely being home from dance con for a day didn’t stop him from heading out the door twenty minutes sooner than he technically needed to, thoughts on how tired he actually was after the whole week of dancing and late nights and an all-nighter with Camille and a long drive home slowly bleeding out of him as life unfolded before him. A curly redhead ran full-on through the traffic-jammed cars and although some irate people hooted at her, Cameron simply craned his neck to watch her skid to the other side of the street and fall into an old woman’s arms. He couldn’t see enough to be sure, but he thought both women were crying as they clung to each other. 

 

_ That  _ was why. He could never put it into words when people asked him the big questions, but seeing life in so many different forms from so many different people and, even more astoundingly and wondrously, being able to play even a small part in all of it and touch it, taste it, breathe it, be touched by it like being soaked in the light of a hundred different suns… That was living.  _ That  _ was why.  _ That  _ was why he did almost everything he did - dance, his job, his friendships, leaving for work early to drive through the city.

 

After sliding his car into one of his preferred parking spots, Cameron unlocked his glovebox to reach for his office keys. Out fell a piece of paper, limp and soft because of how much Sharpie had been applied to every inch of it. How Camille had managed to slip the note into his  _ locked  _ glovebox without him seeing was beyond him, but he could feel nothing except intense, heartwarming joy and affection at the brightly decorated note. 

 

_ I was just kidding, you know _ , Camille’s loopy handwriting told him in red.  _ You’re actually a 5.5. ;P But you danced as well as this paper is colourful _ . 

 

Tucking the paper into the safety of his top pocket, Cameron locked his car and then took the elevator right to the roof. He snapped the best shot he could of the last brilliant oranges and pinks in the night sky and the slowly awakening lights, satisfied that the final image looked as beautiful as the real thing. 

 

_ You danced as well as this scenery is stunning. Miss you, Poppet _ , he captioned before he hit send. 

 

The feeling of melancholic endearment stayed heavy in his chest as he made his way back down to his floor and then into the massive open-plan office that was as good as his second home. He’d barely sat down when the familiar, tell-tale sound of chair wheels rushing toward him caught his attention, and he lifted his right fist up automatically, grinning as he felt the solid fist-bump connect before the chair whizzed past his desk. 

 

“Are you being punished or something? Since  _ when  _ do  _ you _ work the graveyard shift?” Cameron said in surprise as Linus wheeled himself back to Cameron’s desk jerkily. 

 

“I’m pulling a leaf out of your book - taking some double night shifts on top of my usual six-to-noon so I can take a whole week off next week.  _ Tahiti _ , dude! Going to  _ Tahiti _ !” 

 

Cameron made an impressed face and slapped Linus’ upraised hand. “I am suitably jealous,” he said seriously. “Is this a chance to try and “find yourself” or are you going with your parents?” 

 

Linus twitched his head to the right a little, twisting one corner of his mouth up. “With my parents. They said they’re missing me since I moved out. That they need family bonding time.” His gaze on Cameron was sharp; hoping fervently that his friend wouldn’t show the open scorn he was undoubtedly used to when the topic of his parents came up. 

 

Cameron just shrugged his shoulders easily, noting how Linus’ tense shoulders relaxed at the blase response. “Your parents are cool.”

 

“ _ Yeah  _ they are,” Linus grinned. “And, oh, hey! They sent some treats we can dig into later. Dad says they’re to help with the people who are ‘especially troubled’ at night. Mom says it’s to bribe the boss if he’s wavering on who to let swap out for night duty now that it’s becoming a popular request.”

 

Cameron turned away from the email he’d been reading in confusion. “Taking the graveyard shift is becoming popular?”

 

Linus shrugged. “Lots of people want to get two weeks’ worth of shifts over in one, I guess.”

 

Cameron’s frown deepened. Not only did he worry that this scramble would make Blair shut down the option and thus limit Cameron’s chances of attending cons in the future, but he was also disturbed by the news he’d unintentionally started a trend. If not enough people wanted to be on duty, or if they just worked flatout and stretched themselves too far to be at their best at work… He didn’t want that to happen at all, let alone to be the cause of it. 

 

“How’s Blair taking that?” he asked, voice very cautious and frown still in place. 

 

Linus shrugged one shoulder again. “Blair just wants us to do the correct number of shifts, whether it’s one half-day a day or a full nightshift or a half-shift and a nightshift. As long as we still bring our A-game and ignore the telesales guys he’s happy.”

 

Cameron relaxed a little, but made a mental note to talk to Blair during his next day shift. He hadn’t taken the job because of its strange shift structure, but had found the half-days - or the need to not come into work at all if you’d done a nightshift, which counted as two half-day shifts - to be greatly beneficial to his hobbies. Add to the fact that Blair allowed accumulating work credits so Cameron could take the week off to go hang out with Camille at cons, and it was pretty much the fairytale-perfect job for him. He didn’t want to lose that flexibility, if he could help it; didn’t want to give up afternoons of teaching dance to elderly people and  _ definitely  _ didn’t want to miss seeing Camille as much as possible. But the job itself was also important to him, and if he had to cover some extra shifts to make up for people who wanted days off he’d do it for sure. 

 

“About the telesales guys,” he said, changing tracks to a question that had bothered him from the moment he’d walked in. “Why is there suddenly a partition between their desks and ours? When did that get put up? Are we at war now, or do they just not want each group to see the other crying or…?”

 

“Oh,  _ dude _ .” Linus’ face suddenly turned grave. “You missed the  _ biggest  _ shitstorm. Telesales got a new guy while you were away. And they thought it would be funny to haze him by telling him to sit at one of our desks instead of theirs. I dunno how they distracted him from seeing the differences but whatever. So this  _ fourteen _ -year-old kid calls us because his entire family just died in a freak fire and he’s, like, seriously questioning why he should push on and keep on living and this guy picks up the phone instead of one of us and tries to sell him an upgraded  _ family  _ phone package.”

 

“ _ Shit _ . You’re  _ kidding _ .” Horror washed over Cameron, so strong he felt one of his hands gripping the bottom of the desk. He couldn’t even bring himself to imagine a scared, lost kid finally plucking up the courage to dial the number for help and getting some nervous salesman on the other end instead. Something deep in his heart ached in sympathy and then in worry; who knew what damage could have been done when the courage to seek help bit this poor kid in the ass. “What happened?”

 

“Luckily Chelsea was nearby and caught on to the situation. She said she managed to salvage matters. But  _ man  _ was Blair hitting the ceiling. So now there’s a partition between us and them.”

 

“I can’t believe that actually happened,” Cameron murmured fingers running through the tips of his hair as the situation played out in his mind over and over. “Thank the benevolent makers that Chelsea was around.”

 

Conversation petered out after that sombering revelation, and pretty soon the shift officially started and Linus returned to his desk so they could pick up calls as soon as they hit the switchboard. Around midnight, after two of the worst kinds of conversations, Cameron was coaxed into taking a strong coffee and sticky-sweet treat by Linus. They parked their chairs halfway between their desks so each would have an equal distance to have to jump should another call come in. Despite trying very hard to be dignified, both men had sticky fingers, hands and even elbows by the time a few minutes had passed. 

 

“So how was the dance thing, anyway?” Linus asked around a full mouth. “Your Instagram pics looked cool but they didn’t say much. Meet any rad people?”

 

“By ‘rad people’ do you mean ‘hot girls’?” Cameron asked dryly. Linus gave a little sorry-not-sorry shrug and Cameron sighed. “I’m not going to the thing to pick up chicks, Linus.”

 

“No,” Linus agreed, “but there are chicks there. So if one happened to run into you…” He trailed off suggestively. “Was there one that especially caught your eye this time?”

 

Of course Cameron’s thoughts flew instantly to Kirsten. Not so much to her conventional beauty, even though she was obviously stunning both when stationary and when dancing. Instead he dwelt more on the intensity of her stare, like a bird of prey and a telepathic reaching into his soul for the answers at the same time. On the way her entire face puckered when she was faced with any sort of problem she could not solve within the first minute. The way she stood with her arms folded, holding other people off but also seemingly holding herself in check. The way all of that cracked into something that sparked inside him when she finally found something to smile about. Kirsten’s mortification at Camille and him singing in the car. Kirsten’s hands strong and warm in his, and her perfection and yet obvious hesitation as she moved with him for a few steps and then tried to fight him for another. The way her goodbye pat on his arm had started off awkward and then had warmed to something almost affectionate when her hand lingered a little. 

 

His mouth suddenly felt a little dry. And Linus was looking at him expectantly. “Uh…” he hedged, but his hesitation gave him away. 

 

“You did! You  _ did  _ find somebody!”

 

“I didn’t… that’s not…” Cameron felt his cheeks going warm, the phantom sensation of Kirsten’s hands in his making his fingers tingle slightly. “I didn’t… she’s a great dancer! Camille and I just invited her along to muck around with us and give us another perspective and stuff.”

 

Linus raised an eyebrow. “Camille’s okay with this new girl?”

 

The heat intensified. “Camille’s not -” But he broke off and left the sentence hanging, unsure, as he had been for a long while, how to end it even in his own head. Guilt fissured its way through him as he thought about Camille, as though even getting butterflies because of the blonde ballerina was some kind of betrayal. But it wasn’t. Camille wasn’t… Camille didn’t… They were just… “Camille loved having somebody else with that type of technique. She got to boss two people around, too. It was just a really great time.” 

 

Linus stared at him a second longer and then pouted. “I wish you’d take me with you to these things.” Cameron raised one eyebrow. “What? I can dance. I do Zumba twice a week!  _ Advanced class  _ Zumba!” Cameron couldn’t help but snort with laughter, imagining Kirsten’s face should he ever present Linus to her as a dancer. He thought she might just actually call him blasphemous for the act, and resolved to tell Camille about the mental image when they texted the next morning. Linus frowned at Cameron’s badly-hidden amusement. “Hey, Camille seemed pretty impressed with me that time I met her. She and I -”

 

“No,” Cameron said quickly, raising up both hands. “No, no, no. Linus, dude, I told you I never want to know what did or did not happen between you and Camille that one time you met. Okay? I just  _ do not  _ want to know.” 

 

“But we -” 

 

“Nope! Not a thing. Not even a little thing. Just in case.” He ruthlessly squashed down the worm of anxious jealousy that began to nibble on him at the memory. It was none of his business. He had no right to even  _ think  _ anything. They were both adults. And if something  _ had  _ happened and it had made Camille happy… He just hoped Linus hadn’t gotten her to smile quite as softly as Cameron was able to. That thought also viciously got beaten down. 

 

“Cameron, I want to meet  _ other  _ dancers, not Camille again. Because she - ”

 

A phone began ringing, and Cameron took his lifeline utterly gracelessly, all but flinging himself back at his desk. He punched the flashing red button viciously and held the phone up to his ear, not bothering to look at the faces Linus was undoubtedly pulling at him. 

 

“Hi, there. My name is Cameron,” he said, making his voice as gentle as possible. “You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want. I’m here for you either way. What can I help you with?”

 

At the end of the day, no matter how he chose to look at it, working the call center was a hard job. Cameron had known suffering and pain - how could he not, after literally having his chest torn open? - but some of the stories he heard in those late night calls were beyond his understanding.  People who’d lost  _ everything _ ; their friends, their families, their jobs and homes and hope. People whose lives were so miserable he sometimes had no clue how they’d made it far enough to even have the will left to call a helpline. That was the kind of strength he admired and adored in people, and they were the kind of people he wanted so desperately to help. 

 

He’d never explained much of his job to Camille. She knew it was a suicide hotline call center, and he was sure she’d assumed it was exactly as grim as it sounded some days. It wasn’t something Cameron wanted to talk about when he was with her, not when there were a million more pleasant topics, like what breed of puppy was the cutest, or whether or not him taking pole dance was  _ actually _ a good idea (Camille’s answer was always yes, but he was just a tad wary of what might happen should he jump onto the pole too quickly). 

 

The worst call of his life had come in early May,a few months after he’d first met Camille. 

 

Warm weather tended to mean less calls since something about the sunshine and springtime smells lifted people’s spirits. Cameron had been six hours into a mostly uneventful shift when his phone rang and he’d picked it up, rattling off the same carefully, soothing introduction as he always did. The person on the line was a girl, voice quavering with every word. She’d sounded so impossibly young, especially for someone calling a place like that, and it broke his heart. 

 

“I…” a long pause, a muffled sob, and then, “I wanted to talk to someone, just for a minute.” 

 

“Okay, I’m here.” Cameron assured her, trying to mask the worry already bubbling up in his chest. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

“My mother died.” she stated bluntly, followed by another sob. “My mother died, and I… my f-father is just so angry and depressed. He quit his job when she passed and now we’re just sinking further into debt. We don’t have her anymore, we barely have food, and we’re not even going to have a house. I don’t know what to do. There’s just… there’s nothing, my whole life is nothing but grief.”

 

Cameron was already scanning the list of recommended help centers that he kept handy by his desk, eyes locking onto to several names of food donation centers, relatively cheap therapy, and support groups for families who’d lost loved ones. “I can’t imagine how hard that is,” he told her, trying to ease her into some sense of calmness. “Look, I have a list right here of all sorts of people that can help, with food and with getting your dad back on the right track, okay…?” he trailed off, having never caught a name. 

 

There was a quiet sniffle. “Jenna.” 

 

“Right, Jenna. There’s so many people that’d be more than happy to help. Do you want some names and numbers?”

 

“That’s so nice of you, really.” she murmured. “There’s just nothing left for me to live for, you know?”

 

“There are so many things to live for.” he countered softly, thinking of dance and his friends without a moment’s pause. “You can never know unless you’re alive to see them.”

 

She laughed, and it was the most tired, hollow sound he’d ever heard. “You don’t understand. I loved my mother so much, and no matter what I do to survive I just won’t be living anymore. I’ve got no friends, barely any family, and no passions to speak of. There’s  _ nothing _ . I never wanted anything in life except to watch my family change through the years, but there’s nothing of us left.”

 

“No relatives or cousins, not anyone you love?” 

 

There was a soft, muffled noise, like she’d shaken her head. “We were close, but it was because of my mother, It was always her. She was so bright, so vibrant and cheerful…” she had to stop, choking back more tears, and it nearly destroyed him. “Now that she’s gone our family’s fallen apart. No one wants anything to do with my dad. He’s just… gone. Empty inside without her.”

 

“I promise you that with the right help, he and you could both get to a much better place.” Cameron said, and it almost sounded like a desperate plea rather than a simple answer. 

 

“I know you mean well, Cameron, but I’m so tired.” she said. “I’m tired and lonely and I know that it will never change. I’ve seen how this goes.” 

 

“How what goes?” 

 

“Depression. Loss. It starts the way it did with my dad and I, and it spirals. I watched my cousin do the same, and one morning we woke up to missed calls and voice messages saying she’d swallowed too many pills and never woken up. I’m not an idiot.” 

 

He scanned the list for more urgent help centers this time, fingers unintentionally tugging and sifting through his hair. “It doesn’t always end that way. So many people fight their way through depression and become better people for it. I believe you can do the same, Jenna. You called this helpline and that’s such a huge start already.” 

 

Another bitter laugh, and she said, “And what, I just live my life knowing that I’ll sometimes be miserable and sometimes want to die, hoping that the brief moments when I’m okay are enough? I can’t do that, I can’t do this anymore.” She broke down again, little muffled gasps punctuating her last few words.    
  


“Then… why did you call?” It wasn’t accusatory, just a hopeful question. With every person he dealt with, that was always the glimmer of hope. People called because they wanted to  _ want _ to live, even if they didn’t know how to want that just yet. 

 

“I just… I guess I wanted one friendly voice, one nice conversation, before I have to go.” 

 

He was shaking his head, gesturing for Linus or a manager or  _ someone _ to come and find a way to help when clearly he wasn’t helping at all. “Please, Jenna, for me, just wait. Just wait a few days, okay? This is a choice you might not be able to undo. Try getting help first. Try anything.”

 

She was silent for long enough that he’d wondered if she’d fallen asleep or hung up. Linus had finally pulled his chair over and was watching with concern, whispering to the supervisor that had come over. Cameron scribbled  _ She needs real help right now, we need to get her to call 911 or go to the hospital  _ on a notepad and pushed it to them. He knew most of the caller detested that suggestion, but there wasn’t another option. 

 

At last she spoke up. “Cameron?”

 

“I’m right here, Jenna.” he said, waiting for a moment to tell her he had a more highly trained professional at his side to help. 

 

“Tell me something nice.” 

 

He blanked for a moment, staring at Linus in utter confusion (who returned the look wit with a shrug). “Something nice?”

 

“Yeah. Something good that happened to you today, or a week ago, or whenever.” 

 

“I, uh… I do a lot of dance in my free time. Swing and contemporary.” Cameron begun, still unsure what she was really asking. “I met one of my best friends through it. I think you’d love her, she’s so strong, and incredibly smart. The jokes just never end with us, and neither does her endless supply of sarcastic comments. I was really lucky to meet her.” 

 

“Thank you.” Jenna whispered. Then the line went dead. 

 

Afterwards was a flurry of panic. Normally when they couldn’t talk someone down, the protocol was to give the police the caller’s number and have it traced, then send an ambulance in the hopes that somehow they could save that person. Cameron watched numbly as his supervisor sent out the number, barely feeling Linus’ hand against his arm. 

 

They found Jenna dead in her room, her phone in her hand and a bottle of her dad’s antidepressants on her nightstand. 

 

He couldn’t sleep for weeks afterward, let alone go to work every day. Her hollow, grief-stricken voice and words filled his head whenever he even thought about going back, because all he could imagine was it happening again and again with more people who hadn’t deserved to die. Cameron kept to his apartment for days, barely moving from his bed unless it became necessary. He would’ve stayed longer if it hadn’t been for Camille’s text; _ At the convention now, did you forget it started today? Thought we were meeting at that local coffee place. _ There’d be a dance convention that was only three days and close enough to home to work out well for him, so she’d promised to be there. 

 

Cameron took ages to write back, typing and retyping the message a million times but he couldn’t manage to make it sound the least bit hopeful.  _ Work just got a little intense. I don’t know if I can make it this time.  _

 

It took her precisely twenty-seven seconds to reply;  _ Call me.  _

 

He did so, rolling onto his side in bed, smiling softly at how fast she picked up. “Cameron?” 

 

“I’m really sorry.” and he was; sorry for letting someone so young and so full of promise die, sorry for not being able to go back into work and save people, and sorry for having let her down in the process of it all. 

 

“Cameron, what happened?” Her concern was painfully obvious, laced between her words and in the tense sound of her voice. 

 

He wanted to lie and say he’d caught a cold, or that it’d just been coworker drama. She’d see right through that, though, and so after a long pause he murmured quietly, “I couldn’t save her.” 

 

“I’ll be over in ten.” Then she’d hung up, and he curled back up beneath the covers hoping that maybe he’d be able to pull himself together enough for her to enjoy her stay. 

 

When she was there Camille didn’t waste any time dumping her bags in his living room and then crawling into bed with him, so close that another few inches and their noses would’ve been touching. In hushed whispers he told her about Jenna; how he’d tried to hard but it hadn’t been enough, how they’d found her dead and it’d looked like she’d died minutes after the call, and how he’d watched her father break down at her funeral. Camille just listened, eyes wide and welling up with tears of her own as a knot grew in his throat.  _ Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,  _ he chided himself mentally, and then did just that. 

 

It was loud and messy, the way he sobbed against her shoulder when she pulled him to her. Cameron clung to her, fingers digging into her back desperately, holding her as close as he could. She did the same, one arm looped around his shoulder and the other cradling his head close. “Shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay.” she soothed, softer and gentler than he’d ever seen her. “It’s going to be okay, Cameron, I promise you.”

 

His sobs subsided eventual, fading to miserable sniffles - he’d never felt so weak, holding on to Camille like she was about to vanish from his life too (a ridiculous thought, he knew, since she was the brightest, most sunshine-y person in his life). She allowed him his moment of weakness, fingers playing with his hair in a way that had his eyelids fluttering shut and his heart finally slowing down. 

 

“I had it pretty rough as a kid.” She said abruptly, tone guarded in a way that suggested she didn’t know if this was something she should tell him at all.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, glancing up at her. 

 

“Yeah.” Camille echoes, still idly drawing her fingers through his hair. “I grew up in this little trailer with shit parents who drank and fought, and a brother who  _ always _ brought trouble to our door. He nearly burned down that trailer with me in it one time.” at his noise of shock, she gave him a look that he knew meant now wasn’t the time for him to get angry on her behalf. “The point is that when I was a kid, I would’ve loved to have someone like you at the other end of a helpline, talking me through everything. If things had gotten  that bad… you could've saved me, I think.” 

 

Cameron didn’t like thinking about Camille ever being in a situation that gave her so little hope, or one where she’d need a helpline at all, but it counted for  _ something _ . 

 

“You can’t save everyone.” she added. “I know you want to, Cameron, but sometimes when people are too far gone you just can’t. All you can do is keep on going, helping those who can still be convinced life is worth living.”

 

He’d just nodded and tried his best to tell himself the weeks after Jenna’s death, and somehow it helped. What helped more had been Camille’s constant texts checking in, and the calls, and most of all the silly video messages she sent him from music video sets or dance classes. Those e little gestures tugged at his heart in funny ways that reminded him of palpitations.making him wonder if he didn’t just see her as a friend. 

 

He was torn from the memory by the soft tone is phone made for texts, and unlocked the screen to see a reply from Camille:  _ Comparing me to a sunset? Amateur move, and  _ **_so_ ** _ cheesy. _ He laughed at that, firing off a quick reply back before he turned his attention to his desk. The almost immediate reply had him rolling his eyes when he looked again to see a text from a different number - the one Kirsten had given him and Camille at the dance convention. 

 

_ There’s a small convention in LA next week, want to come? It’s nothing fancy but has some really good workshops.  _

 

It was almost hilarious formal, and Cameron couldn’t help but remember her oddly endearing lack of any and all social cues, her bluntness, and how he’d decided he’d get her to smile again as soon as he’d seen that for the very first time. If Camille had been soft, quiet palpitations in his chest then Kirsten was the fluttering, uneasy feeling in his stomach that promised exciting things to come. It seemed ridiculous, getting so flustered by a girl he’d only just met, but Cameron knew she was a good person and that he’d definitely liked her company. Besides, he reasoned, they’d all agreed to go to dance competitions together, so what was the harm?

 

_ Sounds great. Text me the details?  _


End file.
